


How the Light Gets In

by Enigel



Category: Equilibrium (2002)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Would like podfic of this story, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jurgen and John rebuilding Libria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Light Gets In

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cerebel in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge.

_"Ring the bells that still can ring_  
Forget your perfect offering  
There is a crack in everything  
That's how the light gets in."  
(Leonard Cohen, _Anthem_)

Libria was in disarray, the soldiers receiving conflicting orders, more rebels appearing as if from thin air, and seemingly every single sense offender seizing the chance to do something for the triumph of the cause.

Alone Preston ran with a purpose, cutting his way through the crowd with precision, no move wasted; he had to get to the Destruction Hall before they got to the Resistance, just in case the rebellion hadn't reached that far. He couldn't take that chance, not after so many losses, so many dead that he was only now beginning to mourn. Elation and sadness burned through his blood and gave him a speed that the simple practice of gun katas alone would never have given him.

The halls were littered with bodies, but he could spare them no thoughts, not now. Soldiers and rebels were eying him cautiously or hopefully. He ran past them and turned the corner.

There. They were all still there. The row of Resistance fighters and the soldiers seemed at a stand still. Many soldiers had no doubt ran outside to take part in the fights and the few remaining guards were listening warily to Jurgen's arguments. He could see the passion in the man's sharp features, in the shining of his intense eyes.

"Sir!" the soldiers saw him first and turned to him, and then Jurgen interrupted himself and turned to him too.

"Preston!" he greeted him warmly.

They were all standing at attention, all eyes on him, and John became very conscious of his blood-spattered ceremonial outfit.

"It's over," he told all of them and took a deep breath, "Father's dead, it's over."

The soldiers shuffled like papers in the draft.

"So what should we do, sir? Wait until a new Father is named or...?"

"Stop. Stop fighting, stop killing."

"But we..."

The soldier who spoke had his gun lifted still, and all the others' eyes were glued to them.

"Change is coming, boys," Preston said, grabbing the soldier's gun by the barrel and lowering it, "the law is changing. You won't be needing this anymore, and that one either," and he reached for the man's Prozium syringe holder and threw it on the ground.

Another soldier lifted his gun, but before he could even unlock it, John was there, disarming him and immobilising him in one fluid motion.

"Don't," he said in a calm voice. "I could do this to all of you and the only blood missing on this uniform would be mine, but I don't want to. Enough death already. It's time to start living."

No other resistance was met, and in other circumstances he'd have been disappointed by the lack of dedication of Libria's army. Today, he was grateful for it.

"No cause is worth if you don't _feel_ it, Preston," Jurgen told him, amazing him as always with the insight that he could get into his mind. "Well done," Jurgen added and then put his arms around him and squeezed. John blinked in surprise and then remembered Viviana doing something like this with the kids, long time ago.

Hugged, that was the word, an EC-10 word in itself.

He hugged back, awkwardly.

* * *

They met later in the evening, in front of the Freedom building.

"We're bringing out some of the hidden stash of books. Want to put that Cleric training to good use and help?" Jurgen's eyebrows were raised in a way that suggested there was more than the words in that invitation.

"Sure," John said.

"The operation was an astounding success. So many factories went up in the air that by the time they could restore production, nobody will want to. This stuff," Jurgen said, hauling a carefully packed case, "is going to help people adjust with their new situation. Sounds strange, having to cope with normality, but that's where we'll be."

John followed with another case and mumbled in acknowledgment.

"We're recycling some of your soldiers too," Jurgen went on, "their training could be put to good use to stop the fights that are sure to break out. People are people, John, I have no illusions."

He deposited his case on the floor of the old study room, now renamed The _Real_ Freedom Library (painted in bright green letters, by a girl with long hair tied with orange ribbons), and turned to John.

John put his own case down and wiped his hands on his pants. Something was nagging at him and he had the unnerving feeling that Jurgen knew that and was waiting for him to speak.

"What you said earlier," he began, "about believing in a cause you can _feel_."

"What about it, John?"

"I used to believe, I had... faith - in the Father, in the Grammaton, in the law. I was... dedicated."

"That's because on some level, all accomplished Clerics were... feeling. Despite the Prozium, you still kept something, that same something that allowed you to detect sense offenders. You were all closer to them than you could imagine. Why do you think our greatest fighters were recruited from the ranks of the Grammaton? You, Errol..."

John swallowed a knot in his neck, the same kind of knot he'd felt just before collapsing in front of the Grammaton building, like something trying to rip out from his throat whenever he thought about Errol or Mary. Ashes, ashes, both of them, and both by his own hand or as good as.

"What about Brandt?" he said, to change the subject.

"He was consumed by ambition, that was all he worked for and cared about. You were, on your cold-hearted level, honest. Sometimes it takes the most fierce believer in a cause to become its most ardent opponent. Take this," he grabbed a thick book from a pile of similar ones, "it has a story kind of like yours."

"What's this?"

John was staring at a book titled "The Bible - New Testament".

"One of the highest EC-rated books out there," Jurgen quirked an enigmatic smile, "and controversial even before the War. But it has some interesting points, and there were so many copies they never could destroy them all. Saul of Tarsus is the name you're looking for."

John stowed the book in his pocket, automatically. His mind recalled the image of another book, its flesh pierced by a bullet hole. Dupont had quoted the same words at him as Partridge.

"Father's replacement, Dupont. He wasn't taking Prozium either. Yet he condemned the whole of humanity to that."

"There are all sorts of people," replied Jurgen. "Like I said, I have no illusions. We'll be taking the lows with the highs. And it will be worth it," he added, taking John's hand in his and squeezing it.

John squeezed back and felt a different kind of knot in his chest, like when he'd stopped Mary from stabbing him and ended up pressed against her, staring into her blue eyes. He didn't know what to make of it, so he stared into Jurgen's bright eyes and just nodded.

* * *

A middle-aged woman walked up to him one day and told him "You're very good-looking, mister, you know that?" then covered her mouth with her hand and giggled while hurrying away.

John stopped and blinked. Jurgen was smirking at him from the corners of his lips. John felt his cheeks heat up for some reason.

"Was that, um, normal?"

"I have no idea," Jurgen smiled slyly, "but I wouldn't say she was wrong. Did you know that the best-adjusted people these days are those from the Nethers? They've been dealing with their emotions for years, while those in the city seem to go all over each way. The psychiatrists, used to prescribing one, or two, or one and half extra doses of Prozium depending on the patient's particular brain chemistry, are useless now."

He had begun meeting Jurgen regularly, as partners in the newly formed FEEL - Friends for Enabling Emotions League.

"Isn't that..." John had no word for it, but it sounded...

"Tacky?" Jurgen grinned. "Maybe, but people used to love this stuff, and we're hoping to tap into that reservoir of instinctive enthusiasm. Words have power, Preston. Don't underestimate the power of a well-chosen acronym."

John smiled in response. He'd studied his face in the bathroom mirror; Lisa had decorated it with carton cut-outs of flowers and stars as soon as news of the change spread, and that had prompted his first real smile. Jurgen's smiles looked sharper, like he knew something you didn't, and it looked... good. It made John feel glad to have played a part in discovering that.

* * *

They were sitting on a bench, in the small park that had somehow sprung to life in the week after the Liberation in front of what used to be the Tetragrammaton headquarters. It wasn't much compared to what John had seen in some of the confiscated EC-10 material, but the couple of trees and flower pots were making him realise how barren it was before.

Two girls, obviously twins, were sitting on the other bench, reading. One of the girls had a red dress, while the other sported a bright blue one.

"Twins used to be dressed in identical outfits even before Prozium," Jurgen told him, "and now look at them. Humanity is finding its voice," he added softly, "and that's all thanks to you. We prepared the ground, but we were waiting for someone like you. You were the flame that sparked the decisive explosion of freedom."

John was silent for a moment, searching his words.

"It's just... It began as an accident. I dropped my morning interval and it broke, and then the Equilibrium in my sector was closed. It was closed because of terrorism, come to think of it. So it was your doing after all."

"And why do you think you dropped your vial?"

"Like I said, it was an accident. I took it out before brushing, which I never do..." he stopped.

"So why do you think you did it that morning?"

Jurgen had that look that suggested he did know more than you did, and it troubled John.

"I... I don't know. I had a dream."

"Was it any particular day?"

"It was after I... after Partridge. You don't think it had anything to do with that, do you?"

"I think it had everything to do with that," Jurgen said. "I'll have to lend you some books on this, but they're rare and we're trying to get them multiplied before that. Psychology books, the real kind, were the worst hunted of the bunch."

"That wasn't all, though," John said around the knot in his throat. "There was Mary, there were those animals... It was a whole chain of events. One thing led to another, and it felt like I was caught in a web. I couldn't stop, even when I realised I was in danger."

"Caught in having to make up your own mind and choose your own path?" Jurgen echoed his thoughts.

"Strange, isn't it?"

He smiled bitterly. _Remember me, John!_

"My own children were wiser than me. They stopped taking their intervals years ago, and they fooled me, the teachers, the monastery."

"There are things stronger than drugs, Preston, deep in the core of humanity. A mother's love, friendship, a symphony..."

"A symphony," John started from his sad reverie. "There was music in Mary's hidden lair. Ludwig... something."

"Van Beethoven. You have good tastes, my friend," Jurgen smiled. "I'll have to bring you some next time."

* * *

Next time turned out to be three days later. Both of them had been busy with the enormous task of reorganising a society, as small a part as each of them had.

By the second day, John realised he was feeling restless, somehow. Like something was missing.

When he met Jurgen, at the end of the third day, he had a name for that.

"Hey. I think I missed you."

Jurgen grinned that knowing grin.

"I'm honoured to hear that. I was looking forward to seeing you again too. I've brought you something."

He had a bulky-looking bag.

"It's more appropriate for indoors, though. I live close to here."

The contents of the bag proved to be a music-listening device and several music recordings. They were different from the stuff in Mary's apartment, they looked more modern, despite the scratches and dents.

The music was different too. Jurgen couldn't find a symphony, but brought him something with fewer instruments, something that sounded... delicate, thin. Preston pulled an old blood-stained red ribbon out of his pocket and felt tears begin to form at the corner of his eyes. He turned to the window, instinctively wanting to hide them. The sky was the colour of the aromatic tea a woman from the Nethers had offered him, orange and yellow with a darker tint of green. The whole city looked like it was dunked in a cup of tea.

He felt Jurgen's silent presence behind him and spoke without turning.

"You know, when Brandt unmasked me, just when I was so close to my goal and I thought I had them fooled... So many feelings hit me at once - hurt, disappointment, betrayal, shame, anger, even hate. So many things I'd never felt before, I'd never had to confront and rein in. I'd never fought in that state."

"So how did you do it?" Jurgen's voice was quiet, warm.

"I..." John smiled to himself, and the window reflected it back at him. "I thought of you. What you said about restraint and control, how without them emotions are chaos. If I was opening the way for a new world, I had to be the first to prove I was worthy of it. And you taught me that, just like you gave me a purpose. These feelings... It was so sudden, and I didn't really think things through. No wonder Brandt found me out. I wouldn't have accomplished anything if I hadn't met you."

Jurgen's hand clasped his shoulder, and John felt a strange pleasant shiver spread out from there. He turned to look Jurgen in the eyes, and saw them shining.

"Oh, we'd been waiting for so long for someone like you," Jurgen said, and his voice had that deep tone it sometimes got that seemed to make the air vibrate. "I'm glad I met you, John."

They were very close, and the tea-coloured light was seeping into the room. Jurgen looked like he was waiting for something, and John wondered if another hug would be... appropriate. He felt the need to do something.

Jurgen opened his mouth as if to speak, but then the music stopped, and it seemed to change the atmosphere in the room.

"I'll go change the cassette," Jurgen said, and John put his hand on his arm, wanting to stop him, but then pulled it back.

"Sure. I'd like to hear some more like that first piece."

"You mean the violin sonata? I don't have more now, but I have some cello suites. They say the cello is the cord instrument most resembling the human voice."

John nodded wordlessly.

* * *

The next time they met Jurgen had a bruise on his cheek, and John was startled at the wave of worry that swept over him. It didn't make sense, he was here after all, he could see he was all right, but before he knew it he was reaching for Jurgen, taking him by the arm.

"I'm fine," Jurgen told him by way of greeting. "There was a fight, we stopped it."

John felt his lips curve downwards.

"Already?" he asked, hearing the unfamiliar bitterness in his voice.

"John..." Jurgen said, warm admonishment in his tone. "It was expected. Not everybody knows how to deal with their emotions, and not everybody bottles up nice fuzzy feelings. Does it comfort you to hear that the guilty parts were well ashamed after they calmed down and were explained certain things?"

"A little. Until next time."

"We _are_ flawed, Preston. Humanity _is_ flawed, but it is also wonderful. 'Make a perfect cube, then break one of its corners with a hammer. Then what you'll have is art.'"

"What's that?"

"It was in some highly-rated EC book. It was, in fact, the first EC stuff I've read that sort of... stuck with me. It made me think. That's when I began thinking about a resistance movement, and then the Resistance found me. We're not really good or bad until we've faced both options and made a choice."

"Then this," said John as he carefully touched Jurgen's bruise, "is the price you gladly pay?"

"Ow, yes," he said, but he was still smiling.

John wanted to pull back his hand, but he was suddenly feeling - the slightly rough texture of Jurgen's cheek, peppered with one day's stubble, the warmth of his skin. They were eye to eye, and the intensity in Jurgen's eyes was mesmerising. He brought his other hand to feel the wisps of hair, the smooth temples. Jurgen's smile had melted into something curious - not a smile, but not cold either. Not cold at all.

Jurgen leaned closer to him, and now he could feel his breath too.

Jurgen's hands came to rest on his shoulders, brushing past his sides on the way, and John felt that pleasant shiver again, only this time it didn't go away, settling as a warm tingle all over his skin. Jurgen brushed his hands through John's hair, and John closed his eyes, taking a breath, and getting more of Jurgen's unique scent with it. Eyes closed, he leaned so close he could feel their noses touch, and then Jurgen made the final step and closed his lips over John's.

Viviana's lips had been soft and desperate, that last time they touched, while Jurgen's were gentler, slowly teaching his how to mold into a kiss, a real kiss, that left John gasping for breath and hungry for more. He remembered something his wife had once tried, claiming it was useful to bring the female in a better state for reproduction (they'd decided to have their second child), and that he'd found weird, and told her he preferred not to unless it was really necessary; she hadn't tried again, but he remembered (_remember me, John_) the strange sensation of a tongue sliding against his. He felt a wave of pain-mixed-with-pleasure, and it made him cling tighter to Jurgen, press their bodies together and lick his lips with the tip of his tongue. Jurgen responded instantly to that, and John was surprised to hear himself moan when Jurgen sucked his tongue into his mouth, then tangled their tongues together, then pulled back a little just so he could nibble gently at John's lower lip.

John heard his pounding heartbeat in his ears, and leaned down to press his mouth against Jurgen's neck, where he could feel the other's pulse racing like his own. He licked there and was surprised at how much his sensations of pleasure were amplified when Jurgen moaned in reaction to _his_ touch. The warmth in his lower abdomen and the hardness were at least familiar, but they'd never felt that intense, that urgent.

There was no grace or precision in the way he unbuttoned Jurgen's shirt, while Jurgen made a small ritual of every button on John's, slow and determined, then finished by swiftly pulling his sleek Cleric undershirt over his head, to bite and lick at John's exposed chest.

John began unzipping his pants, but Jurgen stopped him. "It's more fun when it's done by someone else," he whispered, and John took the hint and went for Jurgen's belt instead. His fingers lingered for a second on the metal buckle, slightly warm from their bodies, while Jurgen unzipped his simple black pants, knuckles gently teasing John's penis.

"It's also easier horizontally," Jurgen whispered, voice low and deep, and John nodded, stepping back with Jurgen matching his every step, until he found the bedframe.

Then they were lying on the mattress, and John was looking up into Jurgen's darkened eyes, his face lit only by a sliver of light from outside, as they moved together in a tentative rhythm.

He had nothing with which to compare the feel of Jurgen's slightly rough hand between his legs, the way his breath hitched at every pull and stroke, no frame of reference for his own hunger for skin - to touch, to lick, to rub his cheek against Jurgen's collarbone.

He wanted to focus on every sensation, to register everything that happened within him, but he kept being distracted by the same sensations, by the small noises they made now and then, by Jurgen's muscles flexing under his fingertips and his thighs gliding against John's. It was wonderful, and he didn't want it to ever stop, while at the same time he yearned for a release. The music he'd heard in Mary's room flashed through his mind, the way the waves of sound reached higher and higher until he was begging for them to do _something_ and free him from their snare, from the loop of beautiful-painful-beautiful.

He didn't have the time to focus on this apparent paradox, because other sensations kept throwing his thoughts in disarray, like the wet tickling of Jurgen's tongue in his ear, Jurgen's deep growl-moan and the feel of hot liquid spilling between them. All too quickly he felt the build-up of his own arousal reaching the unbearable intensity of the peak, and then his eyes closed by themselves while his body arched against Jurgen's.

When he opened his eyes again, Jurgen was straddling him, still on top but not leaning his whole weight on John; his short hair was sticking out, damp with sweat; he was searching John's face, seemingly waiting for something, and John, at a loss for words, searched for Jurgen's hand and twined their fingers together.

Jurgen smiled that sharp smile of his and relaxed against John's side.

"So," he mumbled against John's skin, "shower or sleep?"

Shower would have been the sensible option, but John was feeling... cozy and warm and he didn't want to move. It was irrational, and he loved it.

"Sleep," he said, and felt more than heard Jurgen's mutter of approval.

They didn't fall asleep instantly though, but just lay for a while and listened to each other's breaths as they evened out. They had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and that was all right.


End file.
